Dancing in the Dark Read Free Page A

it by midnight anyway. I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do about it.”
    No, maybe not.
    Twelve hours I had between that woman’s call and the moment Harry appeared. I heard his car, his key, his steps, running water in the bathroom, the flushing of the toilet, more footsteps from above, a calling, shouting, quick movement down the stairs; steps to the kitchen, then into the living room where I sat, holding on to my vision’s place in that wall of gold-flecked white. Saw his handsome, well-known, well-loved face before me, coming between me and the wall. And as I had thought, a toppling, dizziness, no balance.
    Later I watched the clock on the kitchen wall, white, shaped like a daisy, with a yellow centre and yellow hands, and theyellow hand that showed the seconds went around and around so slowly, slowly, time all finished in twelve hours and then an instant. Two-eighteen in the morning. Two-nineteen, two-twenty Over by then. The twelve hours and the moment, done.
    I did not look. I never saw the result.

4
    T he man who comes sometimes to my room, to whose office I am sometimes led, the doctor, his hands are much like Harry’s. I find myself staring at them, and once he said, “You seem interested in my hands. Is there something about them?”
    Yes, there is. But I do not tell him. I guard my thoughts. I am forty-three years old, and I have had, it appears, only twelve hours’ worth of thoughts, so I have to cherish them. I do not have so many that some can be given away.
    Nor do I want any of them to slip my mind, which is one reason I take such care to write them down. The man, this doctor, says, “Edna, what do you write? Will you show me the notebook?” No, of course I will not do that. He tried, one day, to make me; reached out to stop my pen, so that a blue slash cut across all my careful neatness, but I put a stop to that: the pen turned in my hand, wrist as quick as a baton-twirler’s, and my hand went up, pen aimed at him like—some other thing—and he fell back, gave in, said, “Don’t be upset, go ahead, it’s all right.”
    This notebook, it is a lot like that gold-flecked wallpaper:it helps me keep my balance. It also keeps at a distance all the other things that are going on, that have already gone on. I desire that distance, appreciate the gaps between what all this is, what was, and me. I may have been blind, naïve, but I am not now.
    The doctor, he talks on and on and I know he thinks he is going to reach me. This blue notebook is my weapon against that. Past pain and present pain are neatly filed in here, and that is what it’s for. I am coming to the end of the first notebook and soon will ask for a second. How many will there be? How many years can I live?
    With the doctor I am a stenographer, noting carefully his words. But without shorthand, in my own neat script, hurrying to keep up and struggling still for tidiness. This is not easy, but it is easier than other things.
    He tells me about his wife and his two children, and about his house. I see that he is trying to draw me out. He wants to make me share my life by sharing his. But his words fall into the well of my notebook like stones, and they just lie there, flat.
    He asks me questions. “How are you feeling today? Are you comfortable? Is everybody treating you all right? Are you happy with the meals?”
    I write down his questions.
    He asks so many. Sometimes he tries to make me use the notebook for his purpose, and says, “Write me a story about your house. Or draw me a picture. Tell me what it looked like. Was it big? What colour was it? Show me how the rooms were laid out. Was there a garage? Did it hold one car or two? What colour was the kitchen? Did you make your own curtains? Was the basement finished? Did Harry do work in the basement? Where did you watch television? Did you watchmuch television? What sort of programs did you like? How many phones did you have? Did you keep your cookbooks on the kitchen counter, or did